


put me to rest in your gravestone chest

by ikvros



Category: Given (Anime), Given (Manga)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Check Ending Notes For Additional Warnings, Emotional Manipulation, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, set after ch. 28
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikvros/pseuds/ikvros
Summary: Ugetsu had always looked delicate, like an especially valuable china doll; elegant and well-made, but still breakable.Don’t touch,he seemed to say, with the motion of his bow, the angle of his thin wrist as he smoked a cigarette, the painted perfection of his cavalier smile.I only exist to be admired from afar.Still, Akihiko had—he’d reached out all that time ago and touched, like a spoiled child who couldn’t help himself—and found that Ugetsu’s body was not made of glass, but flesh and bone and blood, the same as his. His skin was thinner, body softer, nails sharper. He was warm.And yet hewasstill breakable.In which Akihiko buries his own life to put Ugetsu back together again.





	put me to rest in your gravestone chest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).

> _the [funeral](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuDGvkpBmTQ) party had drinks,_   
_and nobody asked why you smashed up the table._

“Haruki’s running late,” Akihiko said from his drum throne, tapping back a quick assuagement to Haruki’s increasingly frantic series of messages. “He got held up at work and he’s rushing here now.”

Mafuyu hummed from where he sat against a speaker, fidgeting with his guitar pegs. “Hm? Oh, that’s fine.” 

“You wanna run through the new song before he gets here?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’m gonna have a smoke while you set up.”

Mafuyu didn't look up. “‘Kay."

Akihiko gave Mafuyu a brief once-over before he got up and headed out back. He was definitely distracted by something, but it wasn’t unlike him to be a little absent or off in his own world before practice started up, especially when Uenoyama wasn’t around to scold him into attention—as it was, he was probably just worried about his sick boyfriend. Akihiko guessed that practice would end early today.

He smoked two cigarettes, because the air outside the studio felt nice, if a little humid, and he was in a good mood. After a busy and eventful few months, things were finally slowing down, and he was walking through the new life he’d started for himself at a comfortable pace. He even had enough free time to pick up a part-time job again, and things with Haruki…

He smiled as he took another drag. Things with Haruki were _ very _ good. This wasn’t even the first time Haruki had run late today—Akihiko kept him in bed early that morning until the very last second, sending him off with a kiss and two missed calls from his manager at the cafe. 

_ You’re a bad influence, _ he’d tsked. _ You love me, _ Akihiko had teased, leaving a last lingering brush of lips against the tip of his nose. Haruki had blushed, still unused to his overt and honest affection, but he hadn’t denied it.

So, yeah. Things were fucking good, for once. 

Mafuyu had his Gibson hooked up to the amp by the time Akihiko returned, but he still seemed idly distracted. Even when Akihiko sat back down at the drum set, Mafuyu was stuck to his spot, gnawing on his bottom lip and staring at the floor.

“Oi…Mafuyu, you gonna power-up the amp?”

“Before that…” Mafuyu murmured, eyes still downcast, “I was wondering, Kaji-san…did you know Ugetsu is back?”

The unplugged, irregular strum of guitar strings was the only sound in the studio for a very long moment. Akihiko’s grip flexed and eased around his drum sticks, palms going sweat-slick as a spike of apprehension raked down his spine and flipped his stomach. 

It wasn’t that he was still _ hung up _ on Ugetsu. He didn’t…hurt, not like he did the day he walked away on his own terms, without looking back—the cut between them had been clean, the edges cauterized and bandaged. It was just that Akihiko hadn’t yet dared to peel them off and look beneath, to assess the scarring. It was too soon for that.

It was also too soon for Ugetsu to have returned. Not just because Akihiko wasn’t _ ready _ for the prospect of seeing him again, but because Ugetsu had posted a picture of a withered maple tree against a grey-lit sky with a location drop on his Instagram just over a month ago and captioned it _ until next Autumn, _and they were in the tail end of spring.

So this was troubling news, to say the least. Akihiko wouldn’t have expected a call upon his return either way, but the realization that they were in the same city again was as stifling as it was abrupt; an uncomfortable weight, like Ugetsu’s mere existence had infringed on something that felt very fragile all of a sudden.

Akihiko said, “I didn’t know. I thought he was on tour.” And then, after wetting his dry lips with his tongue, and another very long and uncomfortable stretch of silence, “How do you know?”

Mafuyu didn’t look up from where his fingers danced along the strings. “I’ve been emailing him. I wanted him to listen to the new song I wrote when he came back.”

“Did he agree?”

“Mm. He hasn’t replied in a couple of weeks. But I texted him the other day, and the messages went through, so…I went to your—to his house.” He frowned a little at his fingers, brows pulling together infinitesimally. “I wanted him to listen to my song, but more than that…I wanted to check on him.” 

“Ah. And. Uh.” Akihiko cleared his throat. A bead of cold sweat slid down the back of his neck. “How was he? Were you able to get some feedback?”

“He said it would be pointless to listen to me.” 

And, well, that wasn’t immediately surprising. Ugetsu was fastidious, and cold, and ruthlessly honest about his musical ear. Fickle, too—his whims changed with the hour, the wind, the temperature of his coffee. Akihiko supposed his refusal might be nothing but a matter of bad timing or lack of confidence on Mafuyu’s part, since he knew for certain that Ugetsu considered him to be talented. 

“He said it would be pointless,” Mafuyu repeated, raising his head, “because he isn’t able to hear the notes anymore.” 

Akihiko stared. “Isn’t able…is something wrong with his ears?”

Mafuyu tilted his head. “Kaji-san…you haven’t talked to anyone about Ugetsu lately, right? Or…been on social media?” 

“I’ve been busy with exams, and practice, so I haven’t really…”

Truth be told, he had been busy, but he’d also made an active effort to keep news about Ugetsu out of his life—from unfollowing him on social media to keeping idle chatter with his classmates to a minimum. Mafuyu hadn’t so much as uttered Ugetsu’s name to him in months, much less tried to pry, so Akihiko felt increasingly uneasy—Mafuyu definitely knew something he did not. 

“Ugetsu and I—we don’t—and it’s not…uh. Well—did something happen, Mafuyu?”

“He…” Mafuyu hesitated. “I think you should—”

“Sorry I’m late!” Haruki’s voice carried through the open door before he swept through it himself, hair windswept and bass strapped over one arm. “Have you guys…wait, where’s Uecchi?”

“Uenoyama’s at home with a fever,” Mafuyu said. “He didn’t come to school either.”

“Oh.”

“Hey,” Akihiko said, belated. His stomach was in knots, and he could only hope his discomfort wasn’t as apparent as it felt as he tried his best to brighten his expression.

Haruki frowned. “Akihiko, are you sick, too? Your face is really pale.” 

Well, shit.

“No,” he gruffed, shaking his head rapidly. “I’m fine.”

Haruki looked back and forth between him and Mafuyu for several moments, and decidedly did not look convinced. “Okay…if you say so,” he conceded, unpacking his bass. “Let me just…”

In the end, Akihiko had been right. Practice ended _ very _ early—the sun had barely set when he and Haruki walked out of the studio. 

Mafuyu had gone ahead twenty minutes ago at Akihiko’s suggestion while he and Haruki cleaned and packed up. He guessed that Mafuyu would probably want to stop by to check on Uenoyama, and he hoped that he wouldn’t worry too much more about Ugetsu—Akihiko was surely doing enough of that for them both.

Haruki sighed as the door shut behind them. “Ahhh, I guess the band really does fall apart without Uecchi, huh?”

The air had grown warm and heavy with the promise of rain, though the sky was calm. Akihiko hummed thoughtfully. “It didn’t help that Mafuyu was distracted.”

“I don’t think he was the only one," Haruki said, raising a brow. "Distracted, I mean. Not to give you shit, but you were really off tonight. Is something up?”

He should have known the question was coming. Akihiko _ had _ fucked up plenty himself; they hadn’t made it through any of their songs without a mistake on his part. All he’d been able to think about was what Mafuyu had begun to tell him about Ugetsu—the concern in his eyes, his voice. Akihiko didn’t even know what was _ wrong _ yet, and the mystery of it was eating him alive.

“No, nothing. Just an off day, I guess.”

Haruki didn’t press. Instead, he asked, “Do you wanna come over? I was planning on cooking dinner, since it’s early.”

Akihiko swallowed. As much as he wanted to spend time with Haruki, he wasn’t sure he could keep up this charade all night. He’d definitely have to tell Haruki what was worrying him, and Akihiko really didn’t want to talk about Ugetsu with him. Dredging up all of his past shit and making Haruki worry about where his heart truly was—it wasn’t fair to do. He needed to handle this on his own, and come back to his boyfriend with a lighter heart.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, you know—I do feel kinda shitty? I think I’m just gonna head home tonight and get some sleep.”

“Oh. Well, you sure you’ll be okay? You don’t need anything?”

“Hm? Are you offering? How about a kiss, in that case?” Akihiko teased, grabbing Haruki by the waist and tugging him close.

“Hey—bastard, you’ll get me sick too,” Haruki complained, leaning away and pushing at his face halfheartedly.

Akihiko grinned. “I’ll take care of you if I do.”

“And who’s gonna take care of you?”

“I’ll be fine.” Akihiko sandwiched Haruki’s warm cheeks between his hands and kissed his forehead. “I just need to sleep this off. I’ll text you in the morning if I feel worse, alright? You can _ take care _ of me then.”

“Everything sounds dirty when you say it.”

“It’s meant to.”

He shook his head. “You’re unbearable. I can’t stand you.”

“But you love me, right?”

When Haruki smiled at him, all soft and sincere, Akihiko thought his eyes looked sad—a little distant, and that pang of guilt resonated again, deep inside his chest. He was never sure he was doing the right thing, or choosing the right kind of hurt when he was forced to pick between them.

“Yeah,” Haruki said. “I do.”

* * *

Akihiko rung the doorbell seven times before he considered letting himself in with the key in his pocket—the one he’d never given back after he moved out of the basement.

It was very unlikely that Ugetsu was out. He’d never never been much for leaving the house unless it was for errands or school or rehearsals—he’d barely ever done so for _ Akihiko _ unless he was asked in advance. He spent so much of his time practicing, and he got visibly antsy if his damn violin was out of his sight for more than a few hours.

Besides that, it was late—well past dinner time now, dipping toward eleven o’clock. Ugetsu _ had _ to be home, and Akihiko was going to make sure he was alive in there if it was the last damn time he’d ever see his face. So after the eighth fruitless ring, he reached for the key.

The sounds of lock components and a turning knob halted him. The door swung open. 

“Mafuyu, I told you—” Ugetsu stood in the entryway, and the pinched annoyance on his face melted into slack-jawed surprise as it dawned on him that it certainly was _ not _ Mafuyu who had come to see him. “Akihiko.” 

Terrible was not generally a word anyone would use to describe Ugetsu, except maybe Akihiko, who knew him best—and even then, it was more about his attitude than his appearance.

He looked _ unkempt _ sometimes; a little haphazard, like his hair and clothing were an afterthought, their required upkeep an inconvenient consequence of occupying a body. Eating and sleeping, too, took a back seat to practice—Ugetsu’s absentmindedness got substantially worse when he was nearing a performance; like his head was so full of music that there was little room for anything else. It seemed to be a law of the universe that geniuses could run on coffee and obsession alone, but that was part of Ugetsu’s allure, and all the wrinkled shirts and under-eye circles in the world could never distract from the striking beauty and presence of the man beneath them.

But Ugetsu did look terrible standing in the doorway now. Rather than merely disheveled, he looked overwrought; and rather than sleepless, he looked sick—pale and waifish in clothes that Akihiko recognized, but that seemed too big now on his frame. He was slouched in a way he never was, curled in on himself, as if something had been carved out of his chest.

The sight of it knocked something loose in Akihiko’s heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him close, as he’d done so many times in all the years they’d known each other.

Instead, he swallowed and said, “You’re a mess.”

Ugetsu stared in silence for a few seconds more, rainstorm eyes darting back and forth between his with intensity, as if he were trying to parse whether Akihiko was real or some kind of visceral fever dream. Akihiko could only look back at him, steady and still and patient, until Ugetsu finally seemed to accept whatever it was he was struggling with, opened the door more widely, and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The basement was dim, illuminated only by the kitchen lights, and as Akihiko toed his shoes off and followed Ugetsu down the stairs, he saw—as he had surmised—that it was also a complete and utter train wreck. 

Music sheets and clothing littered the floor, most of which seemed to have exploded from two spilled-open suitcases in the middle of the room. The table was covered in more of the same, along with old takeout containers that certainly didn’t _ smell _ empty. Akihiko wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the basement this trashed, and he’d spent the better part of two years picking up after Ugetsu’s messes.

But Ugetsu turned to him, as if everything in the world were normal and right, with a smile that was all out of place. “Make yourself at home,” he said, and then he laughed, halted and a little hysterical, like he’d just told an especially hilarious joke. 

“Right,” Akihiko said, brow furrowing. He nodded toward the kitchen. “I’ll…make us coffee before we…?”

“Do what you want.” Ugetsu turned on his heel and made for the rumpled bed, which was certainly where he’d been before Akihiko’s arrival. He wondered if Ugetsu had been sleeping, and suddenly felt a little guilty for having woken him, especially if he was still jet-lagged—but he couldn’t turn back. Not now that he’d seen this. Not until he’d gotten to the bottom of things.

Akihiko put the pot on the stove and found the grounds easily enough, but the mugs were nowhere to be found. Not on the counter, where they were usually left; not in the sink, and not in any of the cabinets—he checked every single one, but all he found was sparsely-used cookware and the same dusty wine glasses that seemed to be permanent fixtures where they stood. 

“Ugetsu?” He turned his head enough to see that Ugetsu had curled up beneath the comforter. “Where are the mugs?”

Ugetsu sat up slowly after a moment. Confusion melted into sheepish realization on his face, and Akihiko followed the direction of his gaze to the far corner of the kitchen, where a pile of ceramic shards had been haphazardly swept aside.

“Well,” Akihiko said, brows raising, “I guess coffee’s out of the question.”

“It’s just as well.” Ugetsu laughed in that same strange, frenetic way, and dropped back into the bed, out of sight. “I hardly need the caffeine.”

Akihiko tsked. “It’s dangerous to leave broken glass lying around.”

Ugetsu didn’t reply. Akihiko couldn’t see him, though he knew that he’d heard, and that it was likely the least of his worries. But that idiot would surely forget and cut his feet when his body eventually demanded water or sustenance from the kitchen, so Akihiko took it upon himself to prevent it from happening.

The mugs had been very easy to tell apart when they were whole—two different brands, two different sizes, two slightly different shades of eggshell. Ugetsu never liked the replacement mug, after he destroyed the other’s perfect match, but Akihiko thought the differences made the new set more charming. Now, as he swept it into the dustpan in the fluorescent light, it all just looked like broken porcelain.

Ugetsu was silent for so long that Akihiko almost jumped when he finally spoke again.

“Aren’t you together now? You and the bassist?”

Haruki. Right. Akihiko had almost forgotten that he’d lied to him earlier. It was the first time he’d done so since they’d started dating, and yet it came to him as naturally as breathing, as easily as the truth should have.

“This isn’t about him,” Akihiko said, because that much was true. Coming here had nothing to _ do _ with Haruki, and telling him would have caused him worry and hurt that was completely unnecessary. Akihiko was only here to determine Ugetsu was okay, to assuage the gnawing feeling in his own stomach. Once he’d done that, he’d be on his way, and things would go back to normal. His past with Ugetsu was just that—in the past. There was no reason to make an ordeal of one visit.

“Does he know you’re here? And at this hour?”

For several seconds, there was only the sound of ceramic clinking and plastic bristles scraping against the floor. When no answer came, Ugetsu hummed into the silence and said, “He’ll be angry that you came to see me if he finds out.”

“No. Haruki isn’t—” Akihiko almost said _ like you, _ but he bit down on his tongue as he swept up the tiniest fragments of the mugs, and took a deep, steady breath before trying again. “He’d understand, once I explained.”

“Oh? So you’re only here because you know he’d forgive you for it.”

“I’m _ here,” _ Akihiko asserted, standing with the dustpan carefully balanced in one hand, “because Mafuyu was worried about you. And after I read about what happened, so was I.”

“Ah. That guy,” Ugetsu sighed, though Akihiko thought it sounded rather fond. “So that’s the reason. I’d assumed you’d already heard what happened in Montreal. News like that travels fast and all. But I guess you’ve been…occupied.”

Once the shards fell into the bin with a sharp, raucous clatter, Akihiko rounded the corner to find Ugetsu with his back turned, curled up beneath the blankets, picking at the fabric of the pillow. Akihiko hesitated for a moment before moving forward, cleared a clothes-littered spot on the floor in front of the bed, and sat so that they were both facing away from each other. 

“I heard you entered a violin competition not too long ago,” Ugetsu said, once Akihiko had settled. “I wish I’d been in town to see it.”

“You would have been disappointed. I placed fourth.”

“I know that. But it was your best, wasn’t it? I haven’t seen you play your best violin in a long time.”

For several long seconds, there was just the rhythmic _ pick pick pick _ of Ugetsu’s fingernail against the pillow fabric. And then Akihiko asked quietly, gently, with all of the care that Ugetsu had ever thrown back in his face, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

_ Pick, pick, pick. _

“You didn’t watch the video?” It was so soft that it was almost a whisper.

Akihiko _ had _ gone home after rehearsal—that in itself had not been a lie. It was just that he’d pulled up Ugetsu’s Instagram as soon as he kicked his shoes off at his apartment, and when he found nothing there, resorted to googling him. 

The first several results were headlines about an onstage meltdown, and the cancellation of his tour—and then there was the video. Akihiko hadn’t wanted to watch it. Just looking at the blurry thumbnail made his stomach ache, and it felt wrong, all wrong, to know the video beyond it was of Ugetsu _ failing _ at the one thing in his life he’d always gotten right. 

But morbid curiosity won out in the end. And what he’d seen had brought him here, thoughtlessly, without a care as to what the consequences might be. He felt guilty for not telling Haruki—he did. But he had to see for himself what that concert had done to Ugetsu.

What he’d learned so far did not comfort him.

Akihiko swallowed. “When you told Mafuyu you can’t hear the notes anymore—what exactly did you mean?” 

Ugetsu didn’t speak right away, but Akihiko heard him moving, heard the bed creak and and felt it shift as Ugetsu turned over to face the back of his head. Akihiko kept his eyes on the white-knuckled grip he had on his own ankles, determined not to look at Ugetsu until he’d answered. He didn’t think he could bear it.

“My father was there, you know,” Ugetsu said. Akihiko stiffened. “I reserved a ticket for him. He said he wouldn’t miss it, and he didn’t. But I wish he had.”

Ugetsu’s father. A diplomat—Akihiko only ever met him once, when he’d flown into Tokyo for a few nights and Ugetsu brought him home for dinner. He grew nervous after Ugetsu mentioned it to him in passing; spent the entire afternoon stress-cleaning the basement, wondering what kind of man had helped bring someone like Ugetsu into the world—if they were very alike, or very different, or if there was a reason Ugetsu never talked about him much.

“We were supposed to have dinner, afterward,” Ugetsu continued. “But I couldn’t face him. I went straight back to my hotel, called my manager, and booked the next flight out. I still haven’t returned his calls. I don’t know what to say to him. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

The bed rustled again. Ugetsu sat up, and when the blankets were patted in offering, Akihiko only hesitated for a moment before he pulled himself up to sit on the mattress. 

It was soft; softer than he remembered, pillowy and luxurious compared to the one at his apartment, which was a cheaper box spring that gave him horrible old-man back pain the first few nights he spent in it. He’d _ forgotten _ how soft this bed was. How nice it felt to sink into and lounge on, how easy it was to fall asleep in after—

“Did something happen?” he asked, to take his mind off of all things related to Ugetsu’s bed. Why wasn’t there a couch in this damn basement, anyway? “That night. Before the concert, I mean.” 

“Nothing in particular,” Ugetsu sighed. “My…_ difficulties _ started way before then. That was just the grand finale. If I have to describe it…” he put a finger to his lips in thought. “After we broke up, it was very much like I’d reached the top of a slope. I felt more inspired than ever. It’s why I agreed to the tour.” 

Akihiko had to work not to let his face fall. He’d known he was holding Ugetsu back, but it still hurt to hear like that. 

“I never quite leveled out, though,” Ugetsu continued. “I noticed my accuracy was declining before I left. I thought I was just psyching myself out.

“But after I landed in NYC, I got worse. Way worse. Rehearsals were…humiliating. I overheard a fucking _ flute _ player from the New York Philharmonic telling a violist that he could play the Brahms sonata from the program better than me. He didn’t know I was fluent in English, but he found out pretty quickly after that. You’d think someone that confident in their abilities would jump at the chance to outshine a touring soloist, but if you can believe it—he refused to demonstrate.”

Akihiko, despite himself, had to curl his lips in to keep from smiling. But Ugetsu was looking at hm again, and knew his tells. He said, eyes narrowing, “It’s not funny.”

“Ah—you’re right,” Akihiko coughed, forcing the not-smile from his face. He made sure his expression felt very serious. “Continue.” 

He thought Ugetsu's eyes gentled for the briefest second. But Akihiko blinked, and it disappeared.

“Anyway. The concert in New York was…I had to change my entire program after that. Pieces that came so easily to me, that I knew inside and out…when I returned to my hotel room to practice, it was like my body was at odds with itself. I knew what came next, but my fingers wouldn’t move correctly. It was like. Like I was learning the violin in _ reverse, _ somehow. I dreaded the next performance.” The corners of Ugetsu’s lips turned up wistfully. “I was afraid. For good reason, it seems.”

“I watched the video,” Akihiko admitted, frowning down at his hands. “I don’t know what was happening in your head up there. There’s no way I could. I’ve never even heard you stumble on stage before. But—Ugetsu, it’s _ Paganini. _ It’s so technical, if you felt even a little off…if you were gonna fuck up on _ anything, _ of course it would _ —” _

“Is that really what it sounded like to you? What it looked like? I just _ fucked up _ because it’s _ difficult? _I can play that caprice in my sleep, you know.” Ugetsu’s voice was waspish, full of venom. But it poured out quickly. “Or. I could. That night—I couldn’t hear myself play. I couldn’t even hear the orchestra. Every part of my body that I needed was suddenly disconnected. And, well—you saw how it ended. I’ve cycled through nearly my entire repertoire since I’ve been home. It’s useless. Music—it just sounds like white noise. Whether I’m the one playing it or not, I can’t hear it for what it really is. That’s what I meant when I turned Mafuyu away.”

Ugetsu pulled his knees up to his chest and set his chin on them, and Akihiko waited for him to continue. But the heavy silence dragged on, and there was one question that was still nagging at him.

“But…why? What do you think—triggered the…”

“Dystonia? You can say it, you know. The internet’s already diagnosed me.”

“Have you called your doctor?”

Ugetsu huffed like he was amused. “I don’t think they have a cure-all treatment for the psychological consequences of failed relationships.”

Akihiko’s gaze snapped up. “Who…?” Ugetsu just looked at him, and his stomach filled with something cold. Dread, he thought. “Wait. You think. The…your…that this has something to do with _ me?” _

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Ugetsu asked tiredly. He laid his head against the wall and closed his eyes, as if he were about to take an impromptu nap. “Whatever’s happening to me is obviously tied to our relationship. The further I get from you, the further I get from the violin. The more time that passes, the more I forget, the more my ability deteriorates. It’s like—I don’t know, you—somehow _ mainlined _ to my musical fucking _ artery _while we lived in this house together, and now I’m slowly bleeding out. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?”

Akihiko’s mind reeled. There just was no way. Ugetsu’s talent, his music, his love for it—it was so much bigger than anything he could have felt for Akihiko. So much more absolute. He’d merely been an affair, in the grand scheme of things; a distraction, a deadweight, a selfish keeper. The songbird wasn’t supposed to _ die _ if you released it from its cage. It was supposed to spread its wings and fly far away.

“That can’t be it,” Akihiko said. “There are so many things—”

“You’ve found a new reason to play music, so now you think you know everything about mine?”

Akihiko‘s mouth snapped shut. 

It was true. Fucking around with Haruki at the studio well into the night, performing with Given, picking up his violin for the first time in years without the looming, suffocating presence of Ugetsu’s virtuosity; and the way Haruki looked at him when he was in his element, with this awe Akihiko wasn’t used to—all of it had reminded him that music was about more than simply becoming the best at it. And he needed that, because he wasn’t the best at any of the instruments he played. He never would be.

But for Ugetsu, mastery was in the stars. Akihiko always imagined that music simply _ lived _ within him; that Ugetsu had been both graced and cursed with the ineffable ability to communicate with the surrounding world solely through song. It never occurred to him that Ugetsu needed anything to sustain it, or that something as ultimately fleeting as their relationship could impact upon it—not to this degree. For as thoroughly flawed and emotional a genius as Ugetsu was, when it came to the violin, Akihiko often forgot he was human. 

He felt like he’d been sucker punched. 

“Ugetsu...” Akihiko reached out to touch him, but stopped just shy. That small distance between his fingertips and Ugetsu’s shoulder was treacherous, lined in caution tape and blinking red. “What can I do?”

Ugetsu cracked his eyes open and spared him a side glance. “You can leave.”

“But—”

“You wanted to check up on me, right? And now you have. I even gave you all the dirty details. I’ll be fine, so—”

“There’s nothing fine about you,” Akihiko snapped, drawing his hand back. “You look like hell. It’s been—what, a week since you’ve been back? Have you left this place at _ all?"_

“Aki, don’t you have a boyfriend to get home to? I’m sure he’ll be worried enough as it is. You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.” Ugetsu tilted his head to look at Akihiko full-on. His smile was cold, but his eyes lacked their usual severity—his whole expression was one brittle, crumbling mask. “Or maybe you’re just fucking him after all. Either way, I don’t need your mothering.”

Akihiko didn’t think. He surged forward in a sudden flare of impatience and anger he hadn’t felt in _ months, _ because it turned out that life was pretty damn peachy when Ugetsu wasn’t around to stoke those things in him like a well-kept bonfire. One moment he was keeping his distance, and the next he was hauling Ugetsu in by a fistful of his shirt until they were nearly nose to nose.

“Hey—you can’t just tell me this is _ my _ goddamn fault and then expect me to forget about it," he said. Ugetsu looked like a startled rabbit. His eyes were round with surprise, and up close, Akihiko could see how bloodshot they were. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening? Before—” he grimaced. “Before it got this bad.” 

Ugetsu was in so much pain; pain _ Akihiko _ had caused—even if he hadn’t meant to, even if Ugetsu had stopped loving him first, even if their relationship had slowly rotted like an abandoned countryside house and it had really been no one’s fault at all—and he couldn’t leave, not now that he knew, not if there was anything he could do to lessen it.

Ugetsu’s fingers wrapped around Akihiko’s wrist, but he made no move to pry his hand away. Akihiko’s eyes were drawn to where the stretched neckline of Ugetsu’s shirt revealed his pale, unmarred collarbone, and the bony jut of his shoulder, so much more prominent than Akihiko remembered it being. 

“I wasn’t aware we were speaking,” Ugetsu said with another wry smile. “And anyway, there was nothing you could have done. Not from the other side of the world. Or were you going to fly to me? Leave school and your band just to come to my rescue? What would the bassist have thought of that?”

Akihiko said, “That implies there’s something you think I could have done face-to-face.”

“Well, there _ is _ something I’ve considered.” 

“And what’s that?” 

Akihiko didn’t miss the way Ugetsu’s eyes flicked down to his lips. He realized just how close they were now_—where _ they were—and just as sweeping up the broken mugs had brought with it a powerful sense of déjà vu, so did the way Ugetsu leaned in, and the frigid temperature of his fingers on Akihiko’s skin, and the beguiling expression that finally seemed to cast Ugetsu’s exhaustion in shadow.

“If I can just remember how it felt…” 

It would have been an outrageous lie to say Akihiko didn’t see it coming; that there wasn’t time to pull away, to stop it, that he didn’t _let_ it happen. Though he would have lied anyway—to himself, and to Haruki—when Ugetsu leaned forward and kissed him, lips warm and familiar and soft in what they sought, Akihiko knew there would be no lie convincing enough to fool _ him. _

So he kissed Ugetsu back. Akihiko only meant to do so a moment, to give him those few brushes of lips and no more than that, because he had _ changed _ since he left this basement for good, and he loved Haruki enough for it to hurt when Ugetsu’s tongue slid against the seam of his lips in a silent demand he meant to immediately deny him. 

But muscle memory was a funny thing. 

It was reflexive, how Akihiko opened up instead, the way he surged forward to lick into Ugetsu’s mouth himself and pull him closer by the back of his neck. It was so achingly _ easy _ to do, and to forget why he shouldn’t be doing it. He kissed him hard, as if staking claim over what Ugetsu had stolen without permission; to pay him back with teeth. But control was only ever an illusion when it came to Ugetsu, and when he clambered forward to straddle Akihiko’s lap, hands fisting his shirt, Akihiko quickly found himself overwhelmed and at a loss. 

This had gotten so far out of hand so fast that it made his head spin. Ugetsu tasted like stale cigarettes, and his kisses only got more incessant where Akihiko grew hesitant, more demanding the further Akihiko tried to withdraw. Ugetsu’s weight on his lap was warm, heavy, familiar in a way that made him uneasy, that he knew was _ wrong— _but even then, he didn’t push him away. Instead, his hands hovered just shy of Ugetsu’s waist, fingers twitching toward what he knew was forbidden. 

Between the meeting and parting of their lips, he managed, “Ugetsu, this isn’t—this won’t—I can’t—you’re—_ ’m—” _

“I need you,” Ugetsu gasped, and he sounded so broken that a familiar hurt rose up in Akihiko’s chest, entwined with a long-forgotten want. Ugetsu mouthed at the corner of his jaw, tongue sliding hotly at that spot just beneath his ear, and Akihiko shivered. “I’ll die if you don’t touch me.” 

“You won’t,” he protested. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I might,” Ugetsu whispered. His hand slipped underneath Akihiko’s shirt, and those fingers were cold enough against his stomach to snap him out of whatever trance he’d been in for—much too long. He’d let this go on _ much _ too long.

“Ugetsu! Stop, dammit.” Akihiko yanked his hand from beneath his shirt, grip tight enough around Ugetsu’s wrist to redden it, if not to bruise, and leaned away as much as he could without falling back altogether.

“If you’re not going to fuck me, then get out.” Ugetsu ripped his arm from Akihiko’s grasp, eyes steely. “I can’t stand to have you look at me like that anymore.”

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m a wounded animal and you want to put me out of my misery. It makes me sick.”

Akihiko winced. He knew what it was like to be pitied; remembered how awful it felt when those men and women he slept with for money or a place to crash would look at him—_after _they’d gotten their rocks off, of course—like he needed to be saved from himself. He knew how it felt to be offered more than he wanted, and to be asked for more than he was willing to give, and to be looked down upon all the same.

Even when Haruki—he grimaced—Haruki, when he’d reached up all that time ago, to touch his face, to offer comfort despite the horrible things Akihiko had done—that hadn’t been what he wanted at all. He couldn’t bear the weight of it. Pity was suffocating_, _ even if it was born out of compassion_. _ It made people lash out and run for cover.

Ugetsu started to move off of Akihiko's lap, but his hands quickly settled on Ugetsu's hips, holding him there. He was surprised by how they still fit, like something heavy settling back into its own impression in a rug, like a worn-in sweater pulled on for the first time in early winter. But something was different about it, too—Ugetsu had lost weight. Enough to feel through the thin material of his pants. Enough to help Akihiko make up his mind.

“Will this really help you? If I—” he swallowed. “Tell me it will.”

Ugetsu looked at him for a very long second, cool and calculating and a little cautious. And then he leaned forward, lips so close to Akihiko’s ear that they brushed it when he spoke. “Don’t pretend that’s the only reason you’re considering it.” Akihiko hissed when Ugetsu shifted minutely over his lap, and his face heated in something akin to shame as it dawned on him that he was very much half-hard. “I can feel how much you want me, too.”

_ Damn it. This is wrong. _

Akihiko knew that. He’d known it when he left his apartment, and when he knocked on Ugetsu’s door. He known it when he descended down the basement steps, and when he pulled himself onto Ugetsu’s bed. He’d known it the moment he’d reached out to touch, when he let Ugetsu kiss him, when he let him crawl into his lap like he still owned it. He’d known it then, and he knew it now. 

But Akihiko had already passed the point of no return. Even if he tried to turn back, there would be a part of him that remained. A part of him that knew no matter how much time passed, no matter how happy Haruki made him, no matter how wonderful his life was without Ugetsu in it, that he could still pull Akihiko under with little more than a _ please. _ Even this was unforgivable. Even this he would have to answer to. What was hammering one final nail in the coffin?

“I…”

Akihiko’s eyes fluttered shut on instinct when Ugetsu pulled back just enough to touch their foreheads together. Their noses skimmed, and Ugetsu’s breath fanned against Akihiko’s lips, hot and beckoning. He murmured, so achingly sweet, “I’ve missed you, Aki.” 

“Fuck,” Akihiko breathed, and then they were kissing again.

There was no longer any hesitation in the way Akihiko responded to Ugetsu’s insistent mouth, but there was still frustration. Anger, even—at what Ugetsu had asked of him, what he’d agreed to, and at knowing he was making the wrong choice even as he chose it. His fingers dug into Ugetsu’s hips, pulled him flush, and relished in the noise Ugetsu made when he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip.

Ugetsu hands wandered; slipped under Akihiko’s shirt again, thumbed the piercing at his navel, before trekking up, taking the material in their wake. His nails razed Akihiko’s nipples, mean and impatient, and with a grunt Akihiko broke away to pull his shirt up over his head, and to tug Ugetsu’s off in turn. 

Ugetsu’s hands returned to him immediately, palms flat, smoothing down Akihiko’s biceps, his chest, as if he were relearning the flesh and muscle beneath them. They were gentle, for a moment.

His mouth was anything but. 

Ugetsu kissed down his neck, and Akihiko felt teeth, hissed when his mouth sealed over a particularly sensitive patch of skin and sucked hard enough to leave what Akihiko knew would be a blooming mark—high enough that he wouldn’t be able to hide it even if he wore a damn turtleneck in the _ spring— _and without warning, he fisted a hand in Ugetsu’s hair and yanked him away. Ugetsu let himself be dragged, head tilted back, throat bared, eyes lidded and hazy. So fucking pretty that it made Akihiko burn.

“Don’t,” he warned seriously, “leave another mark on me.”

Ugetsu grinned. Akihiko tugged harder.

“Ow—what, do you want me to say ‘yes, sir’? Is that what we’re doing?”

Akihiko swallowed and reluctantly let go. No, he didn’t want to be called _ sir. _ He didn’t want to have a hickey on his neck to explain to anyone, either—for Haruki to stare at when Akihiko told him he _ fucked _ his _ ex-boyfriend _—didn’t want to feel the shame, guilt, didn’t want to remember the lick of arousal in his stomach when Ugetsu leaned forward again and wrapped his arms around Akihiko's neck, still smiling coquettishly.

“You can leave as many as you want on me.”

Akihiko’s hand flattened against Ugetsu’s back, and in the span of half a second he laid him down on the bed, knee between his legs, and set to taking him up on the offer. Ugetsu’s pretty little gasps and sighs and the fingers he threaded through Akihiko’s hair urged him on, and he writhed beautifully beneath Akihiko’s hands and mouth, arching into touches he knew by heart, letting Akihiko suck as many marks into his skin as he pleased. 

Ugetsu’s free hand nimbly unbuttoned Akihiko’s pants, palming him through his underwear. He was achingly hard, leaking between his own abdomen and the waistband where his cock was pressed, and he jerked into Ugetsu’s touch with a groan. 

“Does he suck your cock like me?” Ugetsu asked, voice dripping with poison.

“Shut up,” Akihiko grit through his teeth, pulling back, glaring down at him. “Leave him out of this.”

“Hmm. That’s a no, then.” Ugetsu's smile was anything but apologetic as he slipped his hand inside Akihiko’s underwear and continued to stroke him. Akihiko wanted to be angrier, but it felt so fucking _ good, _ sent a sick thrill all the way down to his toes as his head dropped to Ugetsu’s shoulder. He knew just how to touch, which buttons to press, how to make Akihiko gasp and fuck into his hand like the teenager he no longer was.

“Want you,” Ugetsu whined, grinding his own clothed cock into Akihiko’s thigh. “Need you to fuck me, don’t wanna wait.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Akihiko managed, mouthing at the soft line of his jaw, biting at his ear lobe. “Where’s the lube, huh?”

“Mm—suitcase, I think. The gray one, inside pocket.” 

Akihiko dragged himself away, and Ugetsu watched lazily from the bed as he tried to locate that stupidly tiny travel bottle. By the time he made it back, Ugetsu had swept the comforter off the bed, kicked his pants off and turned over, ass in the air like he was presenting an offering_. _ He swayed from side to side, peering back at Akihiko like a sly cat would. It was. Entrancing. He was so bold sometimes. Shameless, even.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Akihiko kneeled onto the bed, popped the cap open, and got to work. He liked to take his time with fingering his partners open—the one time he and Haruki had tried penetration so far, he’d spent an hour making sure he was relaxed enough to take him without any discomfort. But Ugetsu was bratty and demanding Akihiko hadn’t worked more than a finger into him before he started complaining.

_ “Yeah, god, open me up. Hurry—” _

_ “You’re impatient—” _

_ “You’re too slow, I can take more than that—” _

_ “Don’t wanna hurt you—” _

_ “I don’t care, I don’t care—want you inside _now—” 

_ “Fine. Lay on your back—” _

_ “Okay, okay—” _

As Akihiko slicked his cock up and pushed slowly into the tight heat, his own quiet moan was drowned out by Ugetsu’s, and it made him preen. He’d forgotten just how vocal Ugetsu was during sex, even when he wasn’t talking—he was so unrestrained, so shamelessly honest about what made him feel good. Akihiko loved Haruki’s shy, muffled sounds with equal measure; loved the flush on his face and the way he looked up at him like he was precious, like he was—fuck, like he was actually _ worth _ something, but this… 

“Mm, I missed your cock.”

This, his body knew so well. It had to be Pavlovian, how those words made him shiver. The hold they had over him flashed tight and strong, like a strand of spider silk glinting in the light. And there Ugetsu sat at the center of the web, with his bedroom eyes and his knowing smile, dark hair splayed out across the pillow.

Akihiko bottomed out, sat back on his knees and pulled Ugetsu’s slim thighs around his hips as he began to thrust shallowly. Ugetsu’s head tilted back, body sliding against the sheets with every movement, moaning when he loosened up enough for Akihiko to fuck into him deeper, with more ease. It was—surprisingly intense. Akihiko was on edge, wary of the way Ugetsu looked up at him, of his own dark desire to wipe the smirk off his face. 

“Is this how you two do it?” Ugetsu asked. “Face-to-face? All—nn—soft and slow? What kind of sounds does he make for you?”

Akihiko’s control fractured like a thin sheet of ice. 

“Stop,” he grit, snapping forward, _ “talking _ about him.” 

“Bet you’re so—ngh—gentle with him, right? He looks sweet. I asked around about him—hah,” Ugetsu’s face crumpled as Akihiko slammed into him hard, “you know, people say he’s been chasing your dick for—” 

“Don’t say another fucking word,” Akihiko growled. He let go of Ugetsu’s legs to lean over him, felt himself sneering, felt anger entwine dangerously with his lust. “Shut up and take my cock.”

Ugetsu laughed breathlessly as Akihiko fucked him harder, kiss-bitten lips stretched over his perfect teeth. It was a laugh Akihiko had heard so many times during their intimacy; delighted and playful, often melting into sweet moans and sighs. Akihiko had always loved that sound, even when it was at his expense. But Ugetsu’s lidded eyes were dark and desperate and void of passion, now, and they begged for something Akihiko had no idea how to give him.

“Why don’t you shut me up yourself?” He gasped. “You’re so hard, I think you _ like _ hearing me talk about your pathetic, talentless boyfrie—”

There was a sharp _ crack, _ and a choked-off noise, and it took Akihiko a moment to realize that he’d struck Ugetsu across the face. It was no gentle thing, either. The half-handprint was branded red across his cheek, each individual fingerprint welting up, surely stinging and hot to the touch. Ugetsu’s face had been forcefully turned, and there was the briefest flash of surprise there before his expression melted.

“Ugetsu, I—” 

“Again.” Akihiko froze. Ugetsu’s eyes were glazed and unfocused and a little watery as he turned his head to look at him full on, but they still had that look in them, that silent plea that made Akihiko’s skin crawl and his cock throb. “Hit me again. You want to, right? Aren’t you angry with me?”

Akihiko blinked. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I see.” Ugetsu grinned weakly. The fingerprints on his cheek grew even more prominent. “He really has changed you. You don't want to hurt him, right? But you like hurting me. You always have. I’m not breakable, Akihiko.”

_ Bullshit, _ he wanted to say. _ You’re the most fragile person I’ve ever met. _

“Hit me,” Ugetsu goaded. “Fucking hit me or leave, like you did last—”

Akihiko did. Across the same cheek with the back of his hand, just as hard, skin tingling with the force of it. This time, it was followed with a moan, and Akihiko’s hand immediately wrapped around Ugetsu’s throat, so slender and fragile beneath his fingers. His grip tightened until he could feel Ugetsu’s fluttering pulse, and his windpipe shifting beneath the brunt of his palm, and no more than that. Not yet.

Ugetsu’s lips were red, swollen, and Akihiko couldn’t help but lean down while he fucked him slow, to kiss him while he was vulnerable and still and _ blessedly _ quiet. Ugetsu’s tongue was lax in his mouth as Akihiko’s slid between and against his parted lips, kissing and licking into the heat in time with his thrusts until saliva spilled down their chins. It was filthy, and he shuddered at the clink of his piercing against Ugetsu’s teeth, that unpleasant drag of warm steel and enamel. Ugetsu moaned again, and Akihiko felt the sound of it beneath his palm.

“Is this what you wanted?” He murmured, fingers pressing in. It was calm. Steady. Nothing like the hammering pulse of Ugetsu’s carotid artery beneath his thumb.

_ “Yes,” _ Ugetsu whined. “Make me hurt, Aki. I want to hurt.”

Akihiko would later recall those words more vividly than anything else about this night. Some part of him that wasn’t buried to the hilt in Ugetsu’s ass wanted to cry just upon hearing them—but instead he picked up the pace, and tightened his fingers as much as he dared. Ugetsu _ sobbed _ in relief, eyes squeezed shut, and Akihiko groaned himself as Ugetsu tightened up around his cock.

“Fuck, you really do want it, huh?”

“Harder,” Ugetsu gasped, _ “more.” _

Akihiko leaned his more of his weight into the hand on Ugetsu’s throat, eyes locked on that rapt expression, and squeezed harder—squeezed in pulses until Ugetsu’s face was red and tears streamed down his hot cheeks and no sound came out of his mouth at all. There was just the creaking of the bed, the slick squelching and slapping of his cock moving in and out of his ass, and Akihiko’s own labored breaths as he drove into him as hard as he could. Ugetsu’s hands clutched at the flex of his forearm, and it was only when his nails dug into the muscle and the rest of his body went limp that Akihiko finally released his throat.

Ugetsu coughed and sputtered and panted—there were red marks on his neck where Akihiko’s fingers had been, likely to become bruises, and he ignored the urge to make sure Ugetsu was alright as he pulled out and sat back on his heels.

“Turn around,” he rasped, voice gravel. “Hands and knees.”

But Ugetsu just seemed to be trying to get his _ bearings, _ was too slow to turn, and Akihiko’s thin patience snapped like a twig—he grabbed him by the hips and manhandled him onto his stomach, tugging impatiently up before Ugetsu could so much as get his knees underneath himself. Once he was in position, however, Akihiko found himself distracted—he took a moment to simply marvel at the puffy redness of his hole, already loose and abused from what it had taken. He pressed over the shiny wetness, dipped his thumb into it and licked his lips before he lined his cock back up. 

Akihiko relished in the sharp noise Ugetsu made for him as he pushed inside. It was deeper at this angle, and Ugetsu was sucking him in, pressing his ass back and whining unabashedly. He yelped when Akihiko took him by the hip and snapped into him, and again when he drew his hand back and smacked his ass so hard that he nearly dropped flat into the mattress. The hand print on otherwise flawless skin was as vivid as the one Akihiko left on his face, and he came down on it again and again, harder and harder until it sounded like Ugetsu was _ crying. _

Akihiko growled and yanked Ugetsu back up when he started to sink down onto his stomach. He made some incoherent, slurred sound, but it sounded like begging, and no matter how many times Akihiko propped him back up, Ugetsu couldn’t seem to hold his own weight on his knees.

So Akihiko dragged him up like a doll. He pulled him back against his chest, one hand flattening against his stomach and the other gripping his jaw, pulling his head back until Akihiko could talk right into his ear.

“You know, you could have just asked from the start if you wanted me to treat you like a worthless whore.”

Ugetsu’s voice was _ wrecked _ when he laughed, defiant as ever, “You’re the kind of man that needs to be provoked.”

Akihiko growled, “I think you need something in your mouth,” and promptly shoved two fingers into it, jamming back toward Ugetsu’s throat and effectively garbling anything else he dared to say. Ugetsu sucked, tongue laving against the calloused pads even as he bit down to brace himself against the harsh _ slap slap slap _of Akihiko’s hips. His body was taut against Akihiko’s chest, back arched as he was fucked into ruthlessly, and when Akihiko peered down, he could see that the head of Ugetsu’s leaking cock had begun to purple with how much blood was flowing through it.

“Nasty slut,” he taunted, low in his ear. “You’re dripping. You like being used as a cock sleeve that much?” Ugetsu gurgled his agreement, saliva dripping down Akihiko’s hand and his own chin, and Akihiko could feel himself smiling viciously. “You need to come, huh? So do it. Make yourself come just like this. My hands are busy.”

Akihiko dug his nails into Ugetsu’s hip and pressed his fingers even deeper into his mouth for emphasis, only drawing back when Ugetsu gagged around them. Ugetsu immediately complied, hand fisting weakly around his prick and pumping in short, aborted strokes. He _ keened _ when Akihiko slung his free hand instead around his waist and hoisted him up, jackhammering into his hole at a speed and angle that was surely painful—but then, that’s what Ugetsu had asked of him.

_ Make me hurt. I want to hurt. _

And he’d been right, after all. He always was. Akihiko wanted to hurt him, too.

Ugetsu’s noises got louder, shorter, higher in pitch, and Akihiko knew he was close because his jaw had gone lax, mouth wide open around the intrusion of the fingers that hooked around his teeth, and when Akihiko looked down he could see that Ugetsu was jerking himself in time with his thrusts, right over the head.

“Fuck yes, come on my cock,” he growled, and Ugetsu _ sobbed, _ gasped once, twice, and then he did—he came so hard that the first spurt of seed hit his chest, and the next Akihiko’s _ chin, _ and it was so goddamn hot that Akihiko stopped thrusting to watch raptly as he continued spilling over his own desperate hand. Ugetsu’s ass fluttered and twitched, body rigidly tense in Akihiko’s hold as he continued to gasp through his orgasm. 

When it was over, he all but collapsed like a string puppet. Akihiko’s fingers had pruned from how long they’d spent in Ugetsu’s mouth, and he dragged them through the sweat and come on his chest before he let Ugetsu fall forward into the down pillows. He wasn’t finished.

“Yes, fuck, use me,” Ugetsu said, pushing his hips back. It sounded like he was still crying, and it didn’t take Akihiko very long to come at all once he registered that he probably _ was._ He continued to fuck him until he could feel that familiar twinge in his belly, that height of sensation drawing his balls tight, and then he pulled out, pumped his cock until it washed over him and he came ropes all over Ugetsu’s ass and lower back. 

It wasn’t an earth-shattering, black-out orgasm that made him see stars or God or whatever the hell he recalled seeing during the few of those he’d had in his life—it barely even felt _ good. _ More than anything, it was everything fizzling out: all of his anger, the desperation, the hope he’d clung to that Haruki would ever forgive him for what he’d done. His world came to a standstill as he panted over Ugetsu’s body, ears ringing and vision blurring before his senses came back to him one by one. When he touched Ugetsu again, his body jolted. They were both trembling.

_ Fuck. _

“Just. Uh. Stay still for a second.” 

Akihiko leaned down to grab the nearest shirt from the floor to clean them both up with. He wiped himself and then Ugetsu down slow, hands soothing. Once they caught their breath, Akihiko had him turn over—saw all of the bite marks and bruises and the mottled skin of his throat, and shame burned through him like a hot lance.

“Shit—I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, tracing the marks on his neck, his face.

Ugetsu snorted tiredly and waved his hand away. “Stop clucking. I asked for this, didn’t I? I practically bullied you into it.”

Akihiko set to wiping the come off of Ugetsu’s chest. “I don’t think you know what’s good for you.”

“Well. I certainly don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow. You better take responsibility and stay over to take care of me.” Ugetsu tilted his head back and leveled his gaze, which was probably meant to look challenging, but eyes were still watery, and he was so roughed up that it only stirred more guilt in Akihiko’s gut. “Unless you need to be going.”

Akihiko swallowed and tossed the soiled shirt onto the floor.

“No. Uh. I have work, but. Yeah. I can stay over.” Akihiko thought he might have fallen apart if he was forced to face what he’d done right now. Here in the basement, where it was humid and dark and still, time halted. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted it to start up again.

Ugetsu smiled and hummed, and closed his eyes.

“You should at least drink a glass of water before you conk out,” Akihiko said.

“Mmm. Tired.”

Akihiko got out of bed and headed toward the kitchen, dodging piles of clothing and a turned over music stand on the way. From the sink he called, “Hey, don’t fall asleep yet. You’re gonna die of dehydration.”

Ugetsu didn’t answer him, and had indeed passed out before Akihiko could force him into downing it. He looked so small and vulnerable curled under the comforter, a guileless expression on his face that only unconsciousness would allow him to wear freely. Akihiko couldn’t bring himself to wake him up. He sighed and set the glass down on the floor beside him before he crawled back into bed. 

It felt natural to slide under the blanket, to sling an arm around Ugetsu and draw him close, back to chest, so that they fit together the way they always had. It felt natural to press a kiss to the back of his neck, to nuzzle into him like he hadn’t spent months doing that with someone else, like Haruki wasn’t waiting for his text in the morning saying _ I feel better today. _

It felt natural, but it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulled Ugetsu closer, and forced himself to fall asleep before the guilt could eat him alive.

* * *

Youtube > watch  
**MURATA UGETSU FLEES STAGE AFTER PAGANINI TRAIN WRECK**

The Asahi Shimbun | ajw > articles  
**Violinist Cancels North American Tour After Disastrous Performance**  
_May 23rd, 20XX_ • Tokyo-based violin soloist Murata Ugetsu struggled through most of his program Friday evening during a concert at the Oscar Peterson Concert Hall in Montreal, Canada … A representative has announced that all purchased tickets for the remaining tour dates will be refunded …

NHK WORLD > NHK.or.jp > news > backstories  
**A Prodigy’s Fall From Grace**  
_May 24th, 20XX_ … Murata faltered during his solos and fell out of sync with the orchestra several times throughout the concert … fled the stage after a less-than-stellar rendition of Paganini Caprice No. 24 … cancellation begs the question: was this a one-off, or has Murata’s career ended before it’s even begun?

* * *

Akihiko stirred awake to the sound of a violin. 

It was dark in the basement, but grey light filtered in from the small windows, the gentle beckoning of an overcast spring morning. Rain beat against the side of the glass, so quiet under the brief pauses of Ugetsu’s playing, and though Akihiko remembered everything he would have to answer to; though a vivid image of Haruki’s worried face filled him with viscous, nauseating guilt; though he knew his phone was dead and the day was imminent—no matter how transient it all felt within the hazy between-space of sleep and consciousness—he hadn’t heard Ugetsu play in months. 

So he closed his eyes for a few minutes more, and he listened.

Bach’s three Minuets were beginner’s pieces—some of the first any classical violinist learned; cheerful and reminiscent, and painstakingly simple. He hadn’t heard Ugetsu play them…well, ever. He imagined that to do so he would have had to witness one of his recitals from more than a decade before they were fated to meet, and he was wholly glad he never had—if his dreams had been crushed that early on, Akihiko wasn’t sure he’d have tried pursuing music ever again.

But here Ugetsu was, playing Minuet in D Major in the middle of his basement at what couldn’t be later than seven in the morning—or, at least, something that _ resembled _ it. The intonation was…impressively off. Akihiko doubted for a moment that it was really Ugetsu drawing that noise from his instrument, or if it was, that he was trying to do anything but give Akihiko a rude wakeup call. 

He rolled over, and blinked until the room came into focus. Ugetsu was sitting cross legged in the far corner, where Akihiko used to keep his drum set, back turned and rigid with proper posture, from what Akihiko could see under the giant shirt he donned. It must have been one of the ones Akihiko had left behind.

He _ was _ seriously playing, then.

Akihiko glanced at the glass he’d left on the floor. The water in it was gone, at least.

He decided to let Ugetsu finish uninterrupted—braced himself for impact, for the inevitable storm he would have to contain once Ugetsu realized that what they’d done last night hadn’t done a damn thing to help him. In fact, Akihiko guessed it might have made things worse.

But when the piece ended, Ugetsu started again. This time, the tempo picked up speed, was erred and rough with obvious frustration on top of its inaccuracies. He’d put a mute on the violin, but it was still blaring in the open space of the basement, and Akihiko felt a knot begin to form in his empty stomach.

“Ugetsu.” Akihiko’s voice was rough with sleep, too quiet to be heard. He winced as Ugetsu’s bow squealed against the strings. “Ugetsu,” he said again, louder, more clearly. No reaction. “Hey.”

Ugetsu stopped, abrupt and sharp. And then he started over. Minuet in D Major, faster and angrier and less and less recognizable. 

Akihiko tumbled out of bed, pulling his clothes on inside out, nearly tripping over that godforsaken music stand again before he shook sleep from his addled mind and rushed over to Ugetsu as quickly has his feet would allow. With Ugetsu facing away, all Akihiko could see was the back of his messy head and the rapid, crazed motion of his bow.

“Ugetsu. _ Ugetsu!” _

Nothing.

Was Ugetsu ignoring him? Could he even _ hear _ him?

The tempo picked up speed.

“Fuck. Ugetsu!” Akihiko stepped over more of the piles in the floor until he could move into that small space between Ugetsu and the wall he was facing, and kneeled down as he continued to play and play and play. His eyes were squeezed shut, and Akihiko didn’t know what to do for a moment, was so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of sound and the heartbreaking sight of Ugetsu falling apart at his feet that it took a moment to realize he’d have to physically reach out and take the violin from him.

“Hey, goddammit, stop!” He grabbed the neck of the violin, and Ugetsu’s other wrist, squeezing until the bow in his hand clattered to the floor. Ugetsu’s eyes shot open; were wide and manic and unfocused until Akihiko forced his face into Ugetsu’s line of sight. “Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Ugetsu’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes were dark, a swirling stormy grey that looked so much more unnatural than it was in the dim morning light. 

Akihiko thought that Ugetsu had always looked delicate, like an especially valuable china doll; elegant and well-made, but still breakable. _ Don’t touch, _ he seemed to say, with the motion of his bow, the angle of his thin wrist as he smoked a cigarette, the painted perfection of his cavalier smile. _ I only exist to be admired from afar. _

Still, Akihiko had—he’d reached out all that time ago and touched, like a spoiled child who couldn’t help himself—and found that Ugetsu’s body was not made of glass, but flesh and bone and blood, the same as his. His skin was thinner, body softer, nails sharper. He was warm. 

And yet he _ was _ still breakable.

Akihiko had put him back together so many times that he lost track of where the fault lines all ended and began; saw every side of Ugetsu there was to see, the loveliest and ugliest parts of him. But this Ugetsu wasn’t chipped, or cracked, or even broken in two. He was _ shattered. _ Cut him as they may, Akihiko could do nothing but reach out and gather all the jagged pieces into his arms. 

Ugetsu went easily. He allowed the violin to be taken from his grasp, to be set back in its case, and for his body to be pulled to Akihiko’s chest, where he shook violently, vibrating like a string about to snap. 

Akihiko always thought he understood Ugetsu’s devotion—to the violin, to the expression he channeled through it, to music as a whole—that they shared it in some capacity, however far apart the reaches of their talent. But if Akihiko couldn’t play music all of a sudden…it would affect him, certainly, but not like this.

Not like _ this. _

“If I can’t play…” Ugetsu whispered, as if dredging the words up from the bottom of some deep, dark trench, “There’s no reason for me to live.”

Akihiko’s arms tightened around him.

“Don’t say that.” It was a command, fierce and frightened all at once. “Ugetsu. Don’t ever say that.”

Ugetsu went still for one shuddering second, until a sob ripped its way from his throat—Akihiko felt it there, in the cotton of his shoulder: the humidity of breath, the hurt of sound so forgotten that it came up like the haunting, anguished peal of a dusty piano key struck. And then, Ugetsu’s body relaxed—went pliant, malleable, and his fingers dug into Akihiko’s broad back, as if he meant to carve permanent holds into the space between his shoulder blades. Ugetsu clung to him tightly, buried his face into the juncture of his neck, and cried.

And Akihiko held him.

He wondered how long Ugetsu had been holding it in. How much of this tension in his body he’d been unable to release since what had happened in Montreal; how much of last night was misdirected passion, incorrectly channeled desperation to _ feel _ something_. _

If this was what the violin dealt with—this insatiable hunger, the demand that it echo what he poured into it with equal measure and voice no real needs of its own; if it was an extension of his body, his feelings, catharsis of the highest and most gratifying caliber, it was no wonder Akihiko hadn’t been able to surrogate that for him. Not back then, not last night, not now, not ever.

Music—Ugetsu didn’t know how to _ exist _ without it. It was his true first love, and the only one that he could continuously sustain. Akihiko had merely been an affair, in the grand scheme of things. He realized that now. 

“I thought it would work,” Ugetsu said into his neck, once the worst of his fit had passed. His voice was thin and watery. “If we…I thought…but there’s no real solution, is there? I’m done for. The violin is—even if—I’ll never be able to play it like I used to. I’m fucking done as a soloist.” 

“Hey. Shh, you don’t know that. We can take it one day at a time. You can’t force it like this.” Akihiko pulled back a little bit, until he could cradle the back of his head and tilt him enough to look at his face. “Look at you, you’re a mess. You gotta take care of yourself. You can’t let yourself wither away.”

Ugetsu whispered, “But you’re so much better at taking care of me than I am.”

Akihiko despised that notion. He really did.Everything he touched seemed to fall to pieces.

But he ran a thumb along Ugetsu’s bruised, hallowed cheekbone and sighed. 

“Come on. I’ll help you take a bath. You’ll feel a lot better afterwards.”

Akihiko gathered him up and carried him bridal style to the bathroom. Ugetsu felt like virtually nothing in Akihiko’s arms, but there was weight in the way he clung to him, face buried in his chest, hiding from the world. Akihiko understood it more than he wanted to. He was sure neither of them wanted to leave this basement ever again.

Ugetsu was mostly silent while Akihiko reacquainted himself with all of the damage he’d inflicted on his body. He washed Ugetsu so gently, as if he could atone for it somehow, as if the bruises would wash away with the soap. Of course, they didn’t. None of this would go away. Nothing he’d done would disappear, no matter how badly he wanted it to.

It was only when Akihiko began shampooing his hair that Ugetsu asked into the quiet, voice hoarse, “Did you mean it?”

“Hm?”

“In the room. You said ‘we.’ Does that mean you plan to stick around?” 

Akihiko felt the raised scar at the back of Ugetsu’s head, so small and well-hidden within the thickness of his hair that it would go unnoticed by anyone else running their fingers through it. But Akihiko had been the one to wash the wound clean when it was fresh, and so he knew it was there. It happened that time just after he moved out, when Ugetsu drank too much red wine, hit his head, and drunk dialed him from the kitchen floor.

Akihiko didn’t remember what he’d been doing just before that, or the drive over, really—only the fear that held his stomach taut until he was sure Ugetsu wasn’t dying. The blood had been alarming, but Ugetsu was coherent, and the laceration wasn’t serious enough to warrant a hospital visit. The utter relief at seeing him drunk and bleary and _ alive _ had been a flood so powerful that Akihiko felt the echo of it even now; was reminded of the canyon it had carved through him as he continued to massage shampoo into Ugetsu’s hair.

_ If I can’t play…there’s no reason for me to live. _

Akihiko didn’t want to experience fear like that ever again. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I meant what I said.”

“And if I asked you to be my housemate again?”

Akihiko’s hands paused. “Is that what you want?”

Ugetsu seemed to deliberate on that. Akihiko watched the soap run in little rivulets down his back, parting where the most prominent vertebrae of his spine protruded, and resisted the urge to trace them with his fingers. After a moment, Ugetsu mused, “I don’t think your boyfriend would like it very much.”

Something seized up in Akihiko’s chest, as it had every time he dared to think about Haruki since waking. Nausea rolled in his stomach. But he pushed it down with equal strength; suppressed the hurt the way he’d taught himself to all that time ago, when he learned to survive on sex and charm and Ugetsu’s good moods. This wasn’t the time for grief, or guilt, or self pity—regret, least of all.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Akihiko said, reaching for the shower nozzle. “Tilt your head back, or you’ll get soap in your eyes.” 

He set to rinsing Ugetsu’s hair, and hoped that would be the end of the conversation. It was, of course, a fruitless hope.

“Are you going to tell him you slept with me?”

“Mm.”

“But he’ll break up with you.”

“Yeah.”

“And your band will fall apart.”

“It might.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you love him?”

“…I do.”

Another pause.

“Do you hate me?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Fine. Are you still in love with me?”

Akihiko sighed and didn't dignify that with an answer. He didn’t know if there was a word to describe how he felt about Ugetsu, but he was sure that love wasn’t it. Or if it was, that it was some twisted version of it; some star-crossed storybook devotion only meant for lovers who died in its name.

Though what Akihiko felt was more like a ghost with unfinished business. It wasn’t carved-heart painful, like first love had been, or sweet and slow-simmering like the second. This was a lonely, heavy, hapless feeling. Chains he couldn’t shake, shackles he wasn’t sure he’d ever been free of. Akihiko would surely offer his neck on the guillotine if Ugetsu asked it of him—_had, _ in fact. He didn’t know if that was love. He didn’t want it to be.

His hands fell away from Ugetsu’s hair with the last of the spray, and Ugetsu tilted his head back as far as the tub would allow, until he could look Akihiko in the eyes. His own were red-rimmed, and he looked exhausted, but his skin was flushed healthily from the warmth of the bath, and now he was clean, and later today Akihiko would come back with something for him to eat, too. Later. After he went home, and went to work, and broke his boyfriend’s heart.

“Are we done playing twenty questions?” Akihiko asked. “I have work soon. And you should rest more.”

“Sure.” 

Akihiko started to stand to grab a towel, but Ugetsu lifted one hand out of the water and fisted the front of his shirt before he could straighten—Akihiko had to grab the edge of the tub for support, and he grimaced at the unpleasant wetness that began to spread across his chest.

“Ugetsu—” 

“Aki.”

Akihiko’s complaint was caught in his throat. He stared into Ugetsu’s eyes, which had suddenly fallen to the soft, lidded half-mast Akihiko knew as a beacon of sincerity.

Ugetsu said, very gently, “I’m sorry.”

Akihiko almost asked why. But he didn’t care to narrow down all the things Ugetsu had done to him that warranted an apology, or to remind Ugetsu that he owed at least a thousand to him in return, or to announce that a more appropriate thing to say in that moment would have just been _ thank you. _ He thought he might have understood, anyway; that it was _ just _ sorrow, unchangeable and uselessly felt, but comforting all the same. A mirror, a white flag, a hand extended: _ I’m sorry for what we’ve done to each other. _

Akihiko let his forehead fall against Ugetsu’s, and closed his eyes. He felt the damp heat of his skin, and inhaled the familiar scent of his shampoo—natural lavender, mild and earthy, so different from the lovely, bright perfume of Haruki’s. He remembered it vividly because he’d woken up just yesterday morning with his nose pressed into the nape of Haruki’s neck. The sunlight streamed warm and unfettered through his third story apartment window. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was gold.

He’d been happy.

_ I’m sorry for what we’ve done to each other. _

Akihiko said, “I am, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> the warnings below contain detailed spoilers. if there's anything else you think i should add, let me know!
> 
> WARNINGS:
> 
> **• noncon/dubcon**:
> 
> \- ugetsu persuades akihiko to have sex with him by insinuating that it's the only thing that might help him. while akihiko is visibly conflicted and struggling with what he wants to do, ugetsu tells him that he should leave if he's not going to help. akihiko decides to go through with it and reinitiates sexual contact.  
\- not-safe-or-sane and dubiously consensual kink elements such as slapping, choking and spanking.  
\- brief reference to the akihiko/haruki sexual assault scene in chapter 20 of the manga.
> 
> **• infidelity** \- akihiko cheats on haruki with ugetsu.
> 
> **• brief/implied suicidal ideation** \- ugetsu says _"If I can't play...there's no reason for me to live."_ it's not elaborated on, but it does resonate with and worry akihiko.
> 
> //
> 
> a few things: 
> 
> i knew virtually nothing about the violin or classical music before i started this piece. i would say i still know virtually nothing even after hours of tireless research (and _ridiculous_ googled questions that will never see the light of day again in my search history), but i do know more than i did before, and dare i say i actually have a few favorite pieces now. i went back and forth on and agonized over which pieces/composers i wanted to use and mention in this fic, particularly the one that became his huge onstage failure. as far as i know, no. 24 is the most well-known and frequently performed of the caprices paganini composed, and while i briefly considered using something less cliche, i like no. 24 the best, and i'm big on self-indulgence. if you've never heard it, you should give it a [listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVCNer89UeM)!
> 
> i also liked the idea of ugetsu being unable to play a relatively simple piece that he learned as a kid. it really signifies, at least to me, how completely he's fallen apart. 
> 
> akihiko and ugetsu are so dear to me as a doomed pairing, and i haven't been able to get them off my mind. they are the epitome of what it means to fall hard in love while still figuring out who you are and what's most important to you in life, and allowing that love to morph into something ugly and mutilated just because you don't want to let go of it. ugetsu's simultaneous reliance on and resentment of akihiko's presence in his life and home is heartbreaking, and it definitely resonated with me the most out of all the given plot threads. i wanted to write an ode to that hopelessness and the cyclical nature of their relationship, as well as the destruction and violence that are such huge themes of it. that said, i hope for nothing but happiness for them both as they diverge down separate paths in the manga (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و
> 
> lastly, this was written for, because of, and in thanks to jean. if it weren't for a single comment on a previous fic of mine, we likely would have never talked, and had we never talked, my love for akihiko, ugetsu, and given as a whole would not burn as bright. this fic wouldn't exist without his encouragement, support, 4AM headcanons, and incredible writing that has kept me constantly inspired and motivated to keep going with my own. if you haven't read his [akigetsu series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1432084), i highly recommend it, particularly [music to make you stagger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266051). while not fully compliant with its events, this fic has a few fun easter eggs from it, and i wrote a lot of it with mtmys in mind.
> 
> so, thank you again jean ❤️ ilysm. you are the most wonderful soul, and i'm so sorry i wrote something that might have crushed it to a pulp, though i hope you still enjoyed it. see you in the (marginally less angsty, fingers crossed) next one!
> 
> thanks also to anyone who read this. i hope it made you feel something. find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/ikvros) if you'd like! i also have an [akigetsu playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2yBplRPf4GJjnnJnNNBBF5) on spotify.


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